Fear is the Enemy of Love
by masked-spangler
Summary: Sequel to 'The Savannah Chronicles.' James, Savannah and Sarah are off-grid, on the run, and in over their heads. James is caught between Sarah's implosion and Savannah's destiny. But is there more---to both of his ladies---than he thinks? Part 7 up!
1. Chapter 1

Fear is the Enemy of Love

Author's Note: This is a sequel 'The Savannah Chronicles.' When we last left James, Savannah and Sarah, they were at peace---for the most part---and going off the grid in a boat to wait out the Terminators...

_'Sweet as a mother's song,  
in the still of the night  
Oh, my love will be there  
I'll be there, it's alright, it's alright...'  
- Fear is the Enemy of Love (Frances Black)_

Part 1: The Storm

It's been six days since their last dockside stop, and they are nesting---or trying to, anyway, given their differing motivations as far as these things go. In their new life as a family, he has found that his primary role has been to balance Savannah's love of people with Sarah's equally strong fear of them. This last week has been a frustrating exercise in this sensitive effort. Savannah had heard on the radio about some sort of festival, and demanded they go. She wanted to be on land again. Wanted to eat in a restaurant. Wanted to play with other children. It had taken a delicate few days to warm Sarah up to the idea, and when they got there, she had hated every minute. Being responsible for a child again was bringing out all of her latent survivalist tendencies, and her jail experience just before John's disappearance was recent enough to have re-ignited her mistrust of all people not On Her Side. He had days of being in this blessed inner circle. But then he had days, when she was tired or overwhelmed or had her fill of social contact, where he---and even Savannah---were not. The festival had been an absolute trial. It was too crowded, too loud, too full of officious authority figures keeping an eye on things. Much as Savannah had wanted to stay, Sarah had been all too desperate to leave. And when mamma isn't happy, as the saying goes...

So they had cast off again without any real plan of where they were to go, and they had been out of land range when the storm hit. By the time they first heard the alert on the ham radio, it was too late and they were too far away from any safe mooring. They had dropped anchor in the wake of a cruise ship, hoping its bulk would shield them from the worst of it. But four days later, they are half-crazy with cabin fever, and both of the girls are queasy from the ceaseless rocking. He has just been on deck again to check in with the Coast Guard---he had alerted them, against Sarah's strong objections, that they were marooned out here with a child---and he's come down below to find Sarah and Savannah huddled together on the big bed, silently enduring. Savannah is clutching Mr. Fur, her stuffed monkey, with white-knuckled intensity. Sarah is staring at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, barely responding to Savannah's occasional prods.

"Good morning, ladies," he says.

Savannah props herself on her elbows, seems to revive a little. "Morning, Uncle James."

"Dare I ask, is anyone hungry yet?"

Sarah whimpers, curls up on her side, closes her eyes. That's a no, he supposes. But Savannah cautiously nods, and he helps her down from the bed, noting the slight---but heartening---spring in her step.

"Feeling better?"

She nods. "You get used to it after awhile. It's still a little...you know." She makes a waving motion with her hands. "But I was staying in bed anyway, because Aunt Sarah needed me. She..."

Savannah hesitates, and as they reach the kitchen, he hoists her onto a stool and kneels down to her eye level. "What, Savannah? What's wrong?"

"Well, it's just that if you leave her by herself when she gets like this, she doesn't really...doesn't really stay here, you know? I think she...she goes somewhere else sometimes. In her head, she goes somewhere else. And I need her to be here, so I had to stay with her."

Her intuitiveness, especially as far as Sarah is concerned, continues to amaze him. It's a remarkable radar that he can neither explain nor duplicate. But when Savannah makes a pronouncement about Sarah, he listens.

"Interesting," he says. He tries to keep his tone neutral. "And where do you suppose she goes?"

"Someplace bad. Can I have French toast, Uncle James? Your pancakes aren't as good as Aunt Sarah's are."

He makes Savannah the French toast, has a piece himself while he's at it. He makes an extra serving and puts it aside for Sarah just in case, then he leaves Savannah with some school work and goes in to check on things.

Sarah is as he left her, ashen-faced, miserable and in near-catatonic stupor. But without Savannah in the bed to anchor her, her breathing has quickened and her fists have clenched at her sides. She's someplace else, like Savannah said. Someplace bad.

"Sarah?"

And like that, her fingers uncurl and her body relaxes. He crawls into bed beside her, wraps his fingers around her clammy hands. "Tell me a story," he says. "Something terrible."

"You tell me a story. Something beautiful."

She's half asleep, but he is gratified she's making the effort to play along. It's a ritual that has evolved in the weeks since they left Los Angeles---he has to learn to live in her terrible world, to prepare himself for what's to come, but she has to learn to live in his beautiful world too. So they have been lying in the big bed together every night and trading stories.

"Hawaii," he says. "There was a conference there. An excuse, really, to have a fancy holiday and be able to write it off on your taxes. About two hours of lectures in the morning, then the rest of the day to yourself. I went walking..."

"You always walk," she says. "Whenever we dock somewhere, you go off and you walk..."

"You make it sound so ominous."

"It IS ominous. The farther away you get from...from..."

"From you?"

She shakes her head, refusing to admit to such neediness. "From the water," she finally says. "They can't swim. I've told you this already, the Terminators, they can't swim."

"This is supposed to be my Something Beautiful story, Sarah. There are no Terminators in Something Beautiful World."

"Sorry. You went for a walk..."

"And I found this beach. It was exquisite. White sand and blue water, water so clear you could see your reflection in it. There was a man who lived on the beach. I don't think anyone knew he was there. He had this little wooden shack, and it was full of...well, of everything, really. Shells. Books. He painted and had all of these wonderful watercolour drawings of the beach and the waves and the sunsets. He invited me to join him for lunch, and when I said yes, he reached into a sandpit, pulled out a trap full of still-wriggling clams, and fried them up right there on the beach for us. I can't even describe how it tasted..."

"You have to," she says. "It's why you tell me these things."

"It tasted like butter. And sunshine. And nature in its freshest, rawest state."

"That doesn't make sense to me."

"It will," he says. "When you hear enough of these stories, it will. This is important, Sarah. As important as what you're teaching me. It's what we're fighting for. Life."

"I know it is."

He senses the testiness in her clipped reply, and backs off a little. She's trying, God love her. He knows where her head has been these last years, and he keeps reminding himself that she doesn't know any better, that she has never had an adult life without this in it...

"My turn," she says. "Mexico. John is five. There is a man the locals speak of. He has trained with the military. Of perhaps more than one country, as it turns out, but I didn't know that yet. I want to train with him. I want to know what he knows."

"And?"

"And he teaches me. And I learn. And I thrive on the action, on the adventure, on seeing my muscles grow bigger and my blood run hot and fierce like his. For two weeks, we train. And then, he says, we'll have a test and see if I have mastered his lessons."

He has to resist the urge to crush his hand into his stomach to knead away the sick knot of dread that's clotting in his gut. This is going to a bad place. These stories always do.

"And?"

"And he came after me. That was the test. Impaled me to a tree with his fist, dragged me across the jungle floor by the hair, kicked me into submission and had his way with me. By the time he was done, I was bleeding out of every place I could bleed from. John had to...had to help clean me off. And do you know what El Jefe had to say for himself, James?"

"No. What did he say?"

"He asked me if I wanted another two weeks."

"Did you take it?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And he beat me. Again. We went two more rounds before I finally won."

"How did you do it?" he asks.

"Waited him out. As soon as I saw him coming, I used my hard-earned strength to climb a tree, and I stayed up there until he called the fight. It's part of being a soldier, James. You've got to know when to advance, but you've also got to know when to retreat. He was bigger than me. Stronger. There was no other way to win."

She shivers, and he pulls her close. "Sounds like you did okay," he says.

"No. I should have been quicker. Learned sooner. It disgusts me that I took so long"

She pulls back, shrugging his arm off of her, the walls going up again. "I don't want to talk anymore."

And he pulls her closer. "We don't need to."

--

He drifts off at some point. The constant motion of the boat makes him as sleepy as it makes Sarah ill, and with her safely cuddled up beside him, he lets himself doze. But Sarah is a restless sleeper, especially today, and he is roused by her constant fidgeting.

"Hey." He squeezes her hand, attempts to settle her. "Hey, Sarah."

She turns, then moans, her body folding in on itself as her stomach cramps and she fights a wave of sickness. She flails for his hand, squeezes it like a lifeline. He breathes with her, matching her thready pace at first, then gradually slowing it, hoping she'll follow. She does. Her eyes water with the effort, and her face is pale enough that he's starting to worry this is more than just the storm taking a hit on her. But after a moment, she stills. And her body goes limp again.

"I have to get out of here," she says.

The waves rise as high as the portholes, and he shakes his head. "Not an option. Not yet."

"No. You don't understand. I have to get out of here. Now."

"Sarah, it isn't safe to pull up anchor yet. The storm..."

She's practically weeping, and he senses the edge of panic in her tone. " I have to get out of here, James. I have to get out."

"Shhh. I'm here," he says. "I'm here, Savannah is here."

She squeezes his hand again, and he can feel, through her clammy fingers, the desperation.

"I have to get out," she says again.

He decides to risk braving the deck with her. He suspects the rocking will be worse up there, and she is weak enough that he'll need to practically carry her out. But he suspects that the 'someplace bad' that Savannah spoke of is weighing her down as much anything physical, and he worries that she'll come apart completely if she doesn't get a change of scenery, and fast.

"We're going up," he tells Savannah. "Can you stay down here? It isn't safe for you."

"It isn't safe for you either," Savannah says.

"I know it's not."

She holds his gaze, seems to read something there. Then returns to her colouring book with a nod. "I understand. I'm good, Uncle James. You have fun up there."

Things go in in that head of hers that he can't make sense of. In both their heads. They are complex beings, his women. With a sigh, he plants a kiss on Savannah's head, then opens the latch and drags Sarah out into the chill, stormy day.

--


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2: Someplace Bad

They train out here. It's why the deck is free of stuff, and why he has nowhere to put her when they get outside. She feels her body slacken in his arms as he rests her on the barren floor. Then she falls to her knees, doing her best to be sick but managing only thick, struggling retches.

"There," he says. He pulls himself up beside her, strokes her back, tries to brush the clumping strands of drippy hair out of her eyes. "Better?"

She glares at him, her breath coming in quick, wheezy pants as she rides out the worst of it. Then she acclimatizes and kicks out her feet, drawing up her knees, keeping her breathing as steady and as careful as she can.

"Better?" he asks again.

She inhales, shudders, scrunches shut her eyes. "No. But I'll manage."

"Can I...can I do anything?"

"Just sit with me. I need...need air."

She lets him draw an arm around her side. "You know what this looks like?"

"What? Us?"

"No, this." Her nod takes in the entirety of the storm around them, from dark the sky to the grey, cold deck and the endless crest of black waves licking the air and pounding into the walls of their sanctuary.

"It looks like the end of the world," she says. "Like I always imagined it to be. After the...after the rest of it. When everything is burned up and all the metal's gone."

"Sarah..."

"It'll look just like this. Like dark, and cold, and...and nothing..."

He lets the silence fall between them for a moment, and when she shivers, her pulls her closer.

"Is this where you go?" he finally asks her.

"Hmmm?"

"Savannah says that sometimes, she feels like you go someplace else, in your head. Someplace bad. Is this it, Sarah? The end of the world?"

And like that, her body buckles and she twists out of his arms, curls up onto her side and finally gives into the sickness. An eternity later, when she is calm enough to move again, he takes her back inside. She's stopped throwing up, but she's coughing now. Poor James, she thinks. He'll wonder if, in trying to be her saviour, he's only made it worse again.

--

There is thunder. She is so distracted by her misery that she doesn't even notice it until Savannah comes crashing into their bed in hysterics, Mr. Fur tucked tightly under her arm. After everything the girl has seen already, it surprises her that thunderstorms should still be such a trauma. But Savannah cuddles up between them and she's such a wreck that, between Savannah's distress and her own cough-wracked half-sleep, they keep James up too, and it's morning before they realize that the boat has finally stopped its ceaseless rocking and the storm has passed.

"I'll go check on things," James says.

He leaves Savannah in bed with her. The girl cuddles close, not even flinching at her hot, sticky skin.

"Aunt Sarah?"

"Hmmm."

"Were you in that place again? That bad place?"

She wonders whether Savannah would tolerate an outright lie, decides that she's too weak right now to pull it off. She settles for equivocation. "I didn't sleep, Savannah. To go there, I have to...to sleep..."

"We have things in the medical bag," Savannah says. "They would help you sleep, and they would make your cough feel better. But you won't take them. Is that why?"

"It's part of why."

"What's the other part?"

She tries to sit up a little, and the motion sets her off. Savannah tries to keep hold of her, but she falls away, her hands twitching, her eyes watering, her body buckling under the force of the deep, wet coughs. Savannah goes instantly maternal and rubs her back, whispers soothing things. As the coughs taper off and she lets herself fall limply back onto the cushions, Savannah strokes her hair and props Mr. Fur into the crook of her arm.

"We have things in the bag," she says again.

"Yes. You said."

"Will you take one?"

"No."

"You'll suffer," Savannah says.

"I've suffered worse."

"Maybe. But you don't have to now. Aunt Sarah, it's safe here."

"It's never safe."

"But we're in the middle of the ocean. They can't get us here."

She waits, and after a moment, Savannah finally gets it. That's not the problem this time. It's where she goes when she sleeps, they can always get you there...

Savannah sits up. "I'm going to leave Mr. Fur in here for a little bit," she says. "I think you need him right now. Aunt Sarah, if you change your mind..."

"I'd rather be awake," she says. "For more than one reason."

"I'm just saying. I can't do anything about that other place. Not yet, anyway. But here...you know that Uncle James and I would watch you, right? We would watch you. And we wouldn't let anything happen."

She lets Savannah leave her. And though she would never admit it---to James, to Savannah, even to John if he were here---it comforts her more than she would care to admit to feel the plushy strength of Mr. Fur in her arms as she drifts off, at last, into fitful nightmares.

--

It's the end of the world, just like it always is, and he's there. He's always there at times like this.

"Hey, baby."

She tries to answer him, but she's coughing so hard she can barely catch her breath. Kyle comes up behind her, braces her back with his arms and tries to pull her upright.

"Hey," he says. "Back with me, soldier. You know where you are right now. That isn't real, not here. It's all in your head, you know."

"No," she says. "This is in my head. You. The end."

"Oh no, the end, that's real enough. Maybe not yet, not where you are. But soon. Eventually."

"I'll wait, thanks."

"But you're not waiting. You're doing it now, like this, and you aren't waiting at all."

"Your point being?"

"My point being that it breaks my heart to see you so gloomy when you don't even have to be. You're broken. You're...you're scared. It's too early for scared, Sarah."

"I am NOT scared."

"Okay, okay. You're not scared. I could make you be."

"Why would you want to?"

"So you'll be ready. So you won't doom your son by failing to be."

Kyle has always enjoyed the prophetic needling. She tries to remind herself that this is all a dream, that he isn't really here, that what he's saying doesn't really matter. But it's Kyle. It's Kyle...

"Fine," she says. "Show me, so I'll be ready. Show me whatever you want me to see..."

He points his finger, like cocking a gun, and a flash of images overwhelm her, racing through her brain so fast, so hot, so terrible that even though she's dreaming, she almost collapses under the strain. Metal. Fire, so much fire. James, Savannah. John. And another face she can't quite see...

There is smoke too, there always is with fire this bad, and it sets off her cough again, her body buckling under the effort to breathe. People, so many people, and fire...

"People matter," Kyle says. "Isn't that what John's always saying? Wasn't that his special message?"

The fire is burning her now, it's under her skin and it's burning her from the inside out, and still, she can hear him. And he's talking to her like he can hear her too...

"I know, he said other things. But that was the big one, wasn't it? People matter? And now you have people, and what has it gotten you? Has it brought you any peace?"

"No," she admits. She struggles to right herself, but her insides still feel seared, delicate. The fire is leaving ashy track marks on her insides, scars on her skin, on her bone, and it hurts her to move...

"Why not?"

"You know why."

"Because you lose them?" Kyle guesses. "They die, like I did? Like Derek? Like Charley?"

And it hits her at last, what Kyle's trying to show her, what all this bluster, this fire is about. It's not having people that's doing her in. It's not even losing them either. It's knowing that there are worse things that can happen than just being lost...

"There we go," Kyle pronounces with an emphatic poke at her head. "Progress. At last, the light dawns. It's gonna be a rough ride, you know. But do this one thing for me. Don't take the pills, okay?"

"Excuse me?"

"Your man. He'll worry about that little fever, and he'll try and give you pills. You won't sleep. You get crazy when you don't sleep. You'll want to take them. Don't do it."

"Why not? It'll stop even you from coming."

"Oh, you need me. Don't kid yourself. But that's not why. Look, trust me, okay? You'll come through it soon enough. But in the meantime, don't take the pills."

"You know, I really hate you sometimes."

"I know you do. But I'm not really here, am I? So I remain un-offended. You ready?"

He puts a hand on her shoulder, and her head is full of stars. It's fire and ice together, and it burns like the end of the world. She's still screaming when she wakes up.


	3. Chapter 3

Part 3: Synesthesia

"Sarah. Sarah!"

He is making soup with Savannah in the kitchen, when he hears her scream. He nearly trips over himself rushing in to her, and he almost doesn't notice that Savannah doesn't seem all that surprised.

"Sarah!"

The screams have tapered off into another fit of coughing. He can hear the rattle in her chest as she breathes, and it doesn't quite go away when her gasps taper off into tiny whimpers.

"Hey." James brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes. "You're okay, Sarah. Easy, now. Let me help you, okay? Breathe. There we go. Now tell me where it hurts."

But with the restoration of at least some composure, she has found fresh bravado, and she turns over onto her side, already wiping clear her eyes. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Sarah..."

"I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"It's only a cough."

"And a fever?"

"Maybe a little."

"Nausea?"

"Not that much."

"Headache?"

She hesitates, and he sees it in her eyes. Bingo.

"How bad?" he asks her.

"Bad enough to piss me off."

"That's not an answer. Scale of one to ten, Sarah. One is a bee sting. Ten is, I don't know, a GSW..."

"A through and through? Or the other kind?"

"A through and through."

"Oh. That's not a ten."

"Well, you tell me."

"Tell you what ten is? That's a story. The Something Terrible kind. And it's not exactly child-friendly."

Savannah has climbed into bed with her again, and is delicately extracting Mr. Fur from the tangled sheets. He tries to make his brain avoid going where she's just tried to send it.

"Well, you slept a little," he finally says. "Did it help?"

"Not really."

"Can I get you something? Tea? Soup? Maybe something from the med-kit to take off the edge?"

She shivers, a look flitting over her features that he can't quite interpret. "No," she says. "No drugs."

"You need to eat something. And you need sleep, Sarah. Proper sleep."

"I know I do."

He sighs. "You're not leaving me much to work with here."

"Giving you something to work with isn't really my priority right now, James. I'm a little busy working on not hacking out my insides."

She's such fun to live with sometimes. He reminds himself, as he plunders his reserves of patience, that she's feeling pretty terrible.

"Well, do you want me to stay with you?"

"No."

"Do you want Savannah to stay with you?"

"Better not."

He lifts Savannah off the bed, and Sarah hesitates for a second, then calls out to her. "Savannah?"

"Aunt Sarah?"

"Can I...can I keep Mr. Fur for awhile?"

And like that, his impatience melts, and he loves her again. Better that she lean on him, of course. But this is a start.

--

He returns to his soup-making, and Savannah has not surprisingly picked up on the mood. She's quiet, in that oddly thoughtful way she has. He's bought her a little junior chef's kit, at a craft booth during that ill-fated festival excursion, and she looks adorably serious in her tiny apron and child-sized chef's hat. He gives her tomatoes; they are soft enough to chop with her little junior knife. But she is more restless than he thought she was, and keeps putting down the knife.

"Uncle James?"

"Hmmm?"

"Aunt Sarah..."

"Oh. She'll be all right. She...."

"She's not, though. I know she isn't. Uncle James, I see things sometimes."

He puts down his own knife and looks at her. "Oh?"

"It's something...my daddy used to do it too. It's like....when I look at people, there are colours sometimes."

"Colours?"

She nods. "It doesn't work all the time. And not with every person either..."

"But it works with Aunt Sarah," he guesses.

"She's sort of a purply-green, most of the time," Savannah says. "Like eggplant. But right now, it's different, sort of a greyish with streaks of black mixed in. Like she's gone all cloudy."

He isn't sure he's completely processed what she's telling him. "Am I a colour too, Savannah?"

"A sort of orangey-red," she confirms. "Like watermelon candy. Do you think...do you think she'll be change back again, Uncle James? It scares me when the colours go different. I like it better when everyone is the way they are supposed to be."

He likes it better that way too. They finish the soup, and they don't talk about Savannah's odd little talent again. But it remains on his mind, and he wonders if she can somehow see his emerging anxiety when she looks at him. It's more than just having, at last, an explanation for Savannah's unusual perceptiveness as far as Sarah goes. It's that he finally has the sense that there might be reasons beyond mere parentage why a Skynet of the future might be interested in this little girl.

--

It's called synesthesia; he looks it up on Wikipedia while Savannah does her work for school. It's a recognized neurological phenomenon where the stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway activates a completely different one simultaneously. The most common form is called color-graphemic synesthesia, and people who experience it associate colours to letters and numbers. It's the closest thing he finds to explain what Savannah has shared with him; instead of letters or numbers, it's body language that she's interpreting. He knows there is nothing magical about this. A person gives off a thousand subconscious cues throughout their interpersonal dealings in life. He is reminded of the aunt he had who could predict, with astonishing accuracy, the gender of unborn babies. She had a reputation in the community for being 'a little bit psychic,' but he knows it was nothing of the sort. During his professional development, he would dabble in basic anatomy as part of the training in field first aid, and he would learn that boy-babies gestated in slightly different hormonal stews than girl-babies did. The cue was there all along. She was picking up on it subconsciously, the same way some people are more sensitive to perfumes or bad breath or body odour. This is what Savannah is doing too, and now that he's aware of it, he is curious to test the limits of her skill.

He writes her up another page of multiplication drills, and she happily occupies herself for an hour or so. As he sets out her lunch, she climbs into his lap again. She seems to crave physical contact when she's upset. And she's spent countless nights curled up beside himself or Sarah when she's sensed that they were, too...

"Uncle James?"

"Hmmm?"

"You're not angry, are you? About what I said before?"

"Is it something people have tended to get angry about?" he asks her.

She nods. "My mom...the one who went with John Henry...she didn't like to talk about it with me. Nobody did, after Daddy...after he...nobody did."

"You can always talk to me, Savannah. You know that, right? About this, about your dad, about anything."

"Yes, Aunt Sarah says that too. But then she doesn't like to talk about John Henry..."

"That's different."

"Well, yes. But then, you get too many things that are different, and next thing you know, your old mommy is gone and the one you have is not the same at all, is she?"

"Savannah..."

"I think," she says. "That Aunt Sarah still hasn't figured out that part. And until she does, she's not going to be okay again. Uncle James, we need to dock for awhile."

"Yes," he says. "I suppose we do."

"It's too small out here. She won't learn it this way. You won't learn it either. We need to dock."

He hugs her closer. "Savannah, you're a smart girl sometimes."

"It's not about being smart, Uncles James. It's never about being smart."

It seems that Savannah is further along in her training than he thought. He is not sure if that's from Sarah's influence, or from something inside the girl herself. And he's not sure, either, if he should be at all alarmed by this development.

--

Sarah comes out again just before dinner. She's dressed, and a little clearer-sounding than she was before. But there are dark circles under her eyes, and her hands are clenched at her sides like she's trying to hide that they're shaking.

"I'm not sleeping," she declares.

He leans closer, gives her a peck on the forehead---as much to check her temperature as anything else---and tries to keep his tone light. "I see that."

She shrugs away from him, the irritability wafting off her like perfume. "I don't mean right now. I mean in general. As a philosophy. I am taking a break from that."

His mouth quirks into a brief smile before he realizes that she's serious. "You're taking a break. From sleeping."

"Yes."

He doesn't know what to say to this. But Savannah saves him by bursting into tears and flinging her arms around her beloved Aunt Sarah.

"Oh, Aunt Sarah, you can't, you can't, it's all wrong!"

Sarah hugs back, but even he can sense the distance. Sarah finally sees that Savannah is not buying her weak placation, and crouches down, gently brushing the hair out of Savannah's eyes.

"I know I can't keep it up forever. Obviously, I know. But I need a break for a few days, Savannah. He won't leave me alone."

"But..."

"It's not helping right now, the sleeping. You know it's not helping, right?"

"Yes. I know."

"I thought you might. This is hard. For you too, it's hard. But I think it might get easier, if I just had a few days without...without...you know?"

Savannah seems to hesitate for a second. Then she wraps her arms around Sarah again, and clings. "We're here too. You know what we're here."

"Yes, I know. Will you help me, Savannah?"

Savannah nods. "Yes. We'll help you. But then you have to help us. We should dock, Aunt Sarah. Even if it means they might...we should dock. There are things we have to do, and we need a home for awhile. Okay?"

"Fine. We'll dock." She stands again, looks at him. "This is a big ask. I know it is. But I need some space on this."

"Sarah..."

"No nagging. No hovering. No interventions if I get a little...a little crazy on you. I get crazy sometimes, when I don't sleep."

"I'm here for you," he says.

"I shouldn't need that. But thanks. Now, have you got anything for me to do?"

"Find us a home. Someplace we can dock for awhile."

"Done. What else?"

"Savannah is ready for another novel study."

"Okay. And?"

"That's not enough?"

She gives him a look, and he sighs. "All right. Give me tonight, and I'll load up the laptop for you. There are some leads that need following up. Think you can handle that?"

"I've been handling that for 16 years, James Ellison. Don't ever forget that. Me at my worst? It's still a hundred times more kick-ass than most people ever get to be."

He lets her have that one. It's a small concession, given everything he's seen today.

--


	4. Chapter 4

Part 4: John Connor, John Henry, Mr. Fur and Other Men

The first night isn't so bad. He's left her plenty to read on the computer, although she has to snort at his perception of what a 'lead' is. Several real estate websites, an assortment of articles from medical journals on post-traumatic stress disorder, and a Wikipedia entry on something called synesthesia. He's suggesting they do Peter Pan with Savannah for the new novel study. She was thinking more along the lines of The Jungle Book herself, but this is one area in which she is prepared to make compromises.

As for the rest of it, she skims---out of respect---but has little patience for it. "I thought I told him I didn't want him interfering," she tells John.

Her son had popped in just at the edge of her peripheral vision about an hour ago, after James and Savannah were both sleeping.

"You know us men," says John. "We always think we know what to do."

He wants her to smile. She obliges him, but she's sad. "You weren't quite a man the last time I saw you."

"Maybe I've been a man all along, and you just never saw it. Ellison has his blind spots, Mom. But you have them too."

"Maybe I do. But they got me this far, didn't they?"

John, perched on the countertop in their little kitchenette, kicks up his feet and makes himself comfortable.

"Yeah. Let's talk about that."

Her heart sinks. "Oh. He sent you, didn't he? I won't sleep, so he sent you instead."

"Mom..."

The betrayal literally takes her breath away, and she breaks off into another fit of coughs. John watches her, his concern obvious, but makes no attempt to intervene.

"Tell Kyle that if he really wants to help me, he'll leave me alone," she finally says. "He isn't helping anymore."

"Sure he is. He's doing what he always does."

"He didn't always hurt me."

"He didn't always have to. Things are different this time. We've changed things. I have. You have. He's trying to get you ready."

"Don't you start with me."

"Oh, come on, you need to face this, Mom. Since when was denial ever your thing? Survival has always been more important."

"For you," she says. "Survival for you."

"No. I'm only part of it. I always was. Mom, there's more going on. That's what I'm trying to tell you. That's what he wants you to know."

She sighs. "There's fire," she finally says. "Whenever he comes, there's fire."

"That's you, doing that. There isn't so much fire here. Not anymore."

"Well, is there a way that I can make the fire stop?"

"Same way you make everything stop. You face it. You fight it. You win."

She blinks, and is aware that she's opening her eyes. Had she let herself drift off? She looks around her at the dark, silent cabin. John has left her. Again. She is alone enough to let herself submit to tears at that one, but all it does is set off the coughs again. She tries to gain control of herself, but she can't catch her breath. When James is finally roused by the noise, she's doubled over, struggling for air, her body rocking with the force of the spasming. So much for silence. So much for John. So much for peace.

--

By daytime, she's better again. She has added a regimen of peppermint tea to her endless cups of water---as much for the caffeine as for the expectorating properties of the peppermint. By her fourth trip to the bathroom, her coughs feel less sticky, and the fever has dropped considerably. She finds herself picking up the carton of tea several times during the morning, studying the label, trying to decode just what it is that's working for her. The tea was John's suggestion. She wonders if he means to encourage in herself, in Savannah, an interest in homeopathy. That would be an interesting skill for them. Useful, she thinks, for what they have to do. She makes a mental note to add this to Savannah's science curriculum.

After lunch, she heads out on the deck with Savannah, breaks out the folding lounge chair, and snuggles up with her to start Peter Pan.

_All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end._

"Aunt Sarah?"

"Yes, Savannah?"

"When did you grow up?"

"In a lot of little ways. The book is not so wrong about that part."

"But it is," Savannah says. "I mean, there is growing up like the time you go to school or the time you first understand that there are children smaller than you. Or, okay, Wendy plucking a flower. But those are just little things."

"Yes, I suppose they are."

"Well, okay. So you understand, than. Well? When did you grow up?"

She answers without even thinking. "When I was nineteen years old and Kyle Reese saved me from a Terminator and told me that my son would grow up and save the world."

Savannah cuddles back again, apparently satisfied with this answer. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah again spots John, and he is nodding at her to take the conversation further.

"Savannah?"

"Hmmmm?"

"When did you grow up?"

"When my daddy died. And my mommy left. And when John Henry took your John away and left me with you and Uncle James. But I think...I think that might have been the right thing, that one. Aunt Sarah, I know you don't like the machines, and you don't like John Henry and you don't like when I try and talk about him with you. But how can they be all bad if they do the right thing?"

"Sometimes we all do the right thing, Savannah."

"So in that way at least, they are just like we are."

She feels her body go numb as her sweaty hands tighten around the pages.

"Aunt Sarah? Aunt Sarah!"

And John is there, and he's sitting on the chair with them, and he's shaking his head. "Mom, Mom, Mom. Get a grip, will you? You'll scare her!"

"No," she says. "They are nothing like us."

"But in some ways," Savannah insists. "They appear to be."

"But it's only appearances." She skips ahead a few pages, to the part of the story where Nana makes her grand entrance.

_She proved to be quite a treasure of a nurse. How thorough she was at bath-time, and up at any moment of the night if one of her charges made the slightest cry. Of course her kennel was in the nursery. She had a genius for knowing when a cough is a thing to have no patience with and when it needs stocking around your throat. She believed to her last day in old-fashioned remedies like rhubarb leaf, and made sounds of contempt over all this new-fangled talk about germs, and so on. It was a lesson in propriety to see her escorting the children to school, walking sedately by their side when they were well behaved, and butting them back into line if they strayed...no nursery could possibly have been conducted more correctly, and Mr. Darling knew it, yet he sometimes wondered uneasily whether the neighbours talked._

"No," Savannah says. "You CAN be more, this is only proving it. There was John Henry, who protected me, and Mr. Fur, who is protecting you, and there is Uncle James and his God, and there is Nana. And they seem like what they seem to be, but they are more."

She isn't sure how God came into this. She is less sure that she is comfortable that he has.

"I just want you to say it, Aunt Sarah. Just one time. I want you to say that they can be good sometimes."

"They can be good. Until they go bad again."

"And there you go," says Savannah in triumph. "Just like us, after all!"

John squeezes her knee, but she can tell from his expression that he is pleased with Savannah's conclusion. But she is tense and fidgety, and remains so throughout the afternoon. Savannah listens to the rest of the chapter and doesn't dare to talk again. She seems to sense somehow that she has pushed enough...

--

John is there through the dinner hour, but he doesn't talk to her again. Just after nightfall, when James has tucked in with Savannah and she is alone again, he pops back in.

"Feeling better?"

"No."

"This is, what, hour sixteen?"

"Excuse me?"

"Since you started this ridiculous experiment. How many hours in are we? Sixteen?"

"I don't know. I haven't been counting."

"Figures. You can't even take well enough care of yourself to know how long you've been at it when you're doing something ridiculous. You know, you haven't been doing that well with this whole empty nest thing, have you?"

"I have Savannah. And James. My nest isn't empty."

"Now, come on. You know that's not the same thing. It'll have to be, at some point, if you're going to save them too. You know that, right?"

"John..."

"I'm doing better without you than you are without me, you know."

"And what does that tell you?"

"It tells me that you were a great mom. You got me ready for this. But you didn't get YOU ready, did you? Somehow, in all of this, you forgot to make a place for you."

She folds open the laptop. "I do have a place."

"What, trolling Craigslist for a beach house rental? That's real important work."

"Be quiet. I have things to do."

"I bet. Look, Mom, you have some work ahead. And it's not the kind of work you're used to."

"John..."

"You need to make a place for you in all of this. Or you'll never be able to help Savannah, help James, help...help your family. You need to deal with Kyle. With me. With all the things you haven't talked to James about."

"John, I..."

"I know, I know. Having me here like this, it creeps you out a little. Conversations with people who aren't really here is like the number one sign of The Crazy, and that's kind of a button for you. But you know, you aren't ready for me to go away just yet."

"Yes. I am."

He shakes his beautiful head, picks up Mr. Fur, starts tossing him around as he paces. "No. You're really not. Look, we'll compromise, how about that? I'm negotiating. It's what great leaders do."

"John, please..."

"I'll watch," he says. "That's all I'll do, I'll just watch." He winks, and his body starts fading out a little.

"John! No!"

"You won't even know I'm here," he grins. And he fades into a million little pieces, and the pieces get sucked up into the plushy heart of Mr. Fur with a whoosh and a blur of light. It's quiet in the cabin again. But Savannah's stuffed monkey is staring at her with eyes that are familiar and alive and intelligent.

She screams, but only in her head this time. Freaked out though she might be, she has enough sanity left to remember to keep the others away.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 5: Special

Hour twenty-nine. Sarah has gone on deck again, and has left him with a thoughtful, subdued Savannah. She is reacting almost as badly to Sarah's experiment as Sarah herself---he's not sure if Sarah keeps bolting outside to get away from them, or because she really does need the chilled ocean wind to keep herself awake at this point, but every time she bails for the sunshine, Savannah gets quiet and climbs onto his lap again.

"Uncle James."

"Hey, Savannah."

"She's taken Mr. Fur with her."

"Hmmm?"

"Aunt Sarah. She's been keeping an eye on him since yesterday and when she went outside just now, she took him with."

"Oh," he says. He's noticed that too, actually. But now that Savannah has pointed it out, he wonders if there is something she's seeing in it which he is not...

"I think he talks to her," Savannah says.

And there it is. Savannah, using her special powers. He wonders why she seems to read Sarah so easily, so accurately, so deeply. Perhaps the nature of the time they spent together after Zeira Corp, both of them grieving, both of them lost, all those hours in bed together huddled against cold, against fever, against dreams...

"Talks to her? How so?"

Savannah shrugs, squirms out of his lap, the momentary need for comfort assuaged by the release of her confession. "Well, you know how it is."

"No I don't, Savannah."

And like that, he breaks the moment. She slumps again, her hands squeezing at her sides, seemingly clutching at the phantom Mr. Fur who would normally be here for her in times like this. She folds her hands in her lap, frowns. Then patiently explains it to him.

"Uncle James. She dreams."

"I know she does."

"She hasn't been sleeping. But I think...I think she's still dreaming, somehow. I think that whatever she's trying to get away from is finding her when she's awake, and I think Mr. Fur has something to do with it. She's looking at him like...like..."

"Like nothing," he says. "Savannah, it's been two days. When people don't sleep, their mind plays tricks on them, and..."

"No," she says. "This isn't like that."

"Well, what is it like, than?"

"Oh, Uncle James. Don't you ever dream?"

"Everyone dreams, Savannah."

She shakes her head, and he can sense that he has disappointed her with this answer. "That's what I thought you'd say. Can I go on deck for awhile? Aunt Sarah said she'd read to me. We're off to Neverland soon."

"We'll all go on deck," he says.

She hesitates, but then she nods and takes his hand. "Try it, Uncle James. Talk to hr about Mr. Fur, and you'll see it. You'll see what I mean."

--

She's on the cold, hard deck, like she was when she was sick with him, hands behind her, propping herself up with them, knees drawn up against the biting ocean wind. She has set up a deck chair, in which she has propped Mr. Fur. Her gaze seems to wander between the hypnotic undulation of the waves and the sober, glassy eyes of the stuffed monkey.

"Hi, Sarah."

She looks at him, looks back at the monkey. He sits down on the deck beside her, moves Mr. Fur off the chair and places him on the deck beside them. Sarah gives him a funny look, then with pointed deliberation, picks him up and sets him back where she had left him.

"Don't even," she says.

"Don't even what?"

"Space, James. You promised."

He eyes the endless vista of ocean. "Looks like you have all the space you need."

"James..."

"You're making me worry. You're making Savannah worry. I'm not sure which bothers me more."

"I'm not crazy."

"Nobody said you were."

"A lot of people said it. You read all about it in your little file. Saw video, even. Am I right?"

He winces. That has been a great, unspoken wound between them, that one. He hasn't been sure how to address it, and he supposes it was naïve to assume it would simply go away if he never brought it up...

"I'm sorry about that."

"I'm sorry too. Things happened there."

"I know. I'm sorry. But what does that..."

"I'm telling you. I'm not a talker, especially about things like this. But he says I should, so I am."

She's looking at Mr. Fur as she says it, and he frowns. "Mr. Fur wants you to talk about this?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well?"

"John does." She says this as if it should be obvious. "He says I need to face my demons, here, now, with you. Or I can't move on, and that'll be bad for you, and for Savannah."

"It's good advice," he says.

"Yes."

"And when, might I ask, did he step in for a chat about this?"

She frowns. "I know that look. I've seen that look before."

"Sarah..."

"I am not crazy. I'm not!"

"Sarah, I didn't say..."

"Forget it. Go back inside, will you? Or I will. I need a little space right now."

"I want to talk about this."

"And Savannah wants her daddy. And I want to stop Judgement Day. We all know how that's working out. Can't always have what you want, can you?

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair. Well? Are you going in, or should I?"

He glances at Savannah, who has been pretending to be engrossed in her book. She shakes her head at him. With a sigh, he picks himself up off the deck and heads back into the cabin. As he closes up the hatch, he sees Savannah climb into Sarah's lap, sees her settle in, sees Sarah's arms fold gently around her. When he looks out again later, they're staring silently at Mr. Fur together, utterly absorbed in whatever they see in those blank, empty eyes.

--

He had a buddy from the bureau who used to specialize in working with traumatized children. This, he has realized, what he is dealing with here, as much with Sarah as with Savannah. When the machines first came, when all of this began, she was only nineteen, and she has been on the run, in a constant state of adrenaline ever since. Single-minded in her focus. Never stopped to breathe, to think, to process. Never moving in her head beyond that single moment of looming, terrifying horror...

But as he is reheating the soup for tonight's makeshift dinner, it occurs to him that the present crisis at least might be rooted in something simpler. She dreams, he knows that much. So it's natural to expect that she would dream about her absent son, that in doing so, she would talk to him, and just as naturally, he would talk to her. There is no craziness in that. And, it shames him to realize that perhaps she is right and that really was what he was looking for. Those FBI reports about her time in Pescadero made for harrowing bedtime reading. It is unfair to think that it may have influenced him.

Sarah comes in with Savannah just as he is finishing up the dinner preparations. Mr. Fur is still in Sarah's hand. But both of them look more relaxed than they were when he left them, and when Sarah meets his eye, she is no longer hostile.

"I'm sorry about that," she says.

"I'm sorry too."

She seems to read the true nature of his shame in his eyes when she looks at him, and she carefully sets the monkey down, then wraps her arms around him. He reciprocates, folds her into a deep, long embrace. When she pulls away at last, she is sniffling a little and wiping at her eyes.

"I needed that. Thanks."

"I needed it too. I love you. You know that, right?"

"I don't understand it. But yeah, I know."

"Well, I don't always understand it either. There's a side of you I can't always read, Sarah. Not the way Savannah can."

"Savannah is special."

"Yeah, I'm seeing that. Maybe a little too special for her own good, actually. It might be a problem."

"Yes," she says. "I read the Wikipedia. And John..."

She breaks off, looks at him, suddenly skittish again. He quickly wraps his arms around her to reassure her.

"It's okay," he says. "It's okay, Sarah. I don't always understand. But I was going to tell you, it's okay. You don't have to be afraid to talk to me about this."

"I haven't slept for thirty-seven hours. I'm not sure it's really...I mean, I know it's not that he's..." She shakes her head. "Let's eat. Then you and me, we need to talk about some stuff. I need to tell you about what really happened to me in Pescadero."

--


	6. Chapter 6

Part 6: Pescadero

She lets James put Savannah to bed. She is only dimly aware of what's going on by this point; she's been pushing fluids like crazy to flush out the last of the fever, and it's killed her appetite. She is dizzy and shaky from lack of food and lack of sleep, and is probably dehydrated, in spite of the fluids, from all her trips to the bathroom.

She's shrugged off attempts by James to coax her into bed while they talk. It's too easy there, too warm, too nice. She isn't ready to sleep yet and doesn't trust herself to stay awake amidst all that softness. He comes at her with a blanket, and even that is too much---it sends her running to the deck again just to get away from him. She brings Mr. Fur with her. John is still hiding inside the stuffed monkey, trying to make himself less alarming to her and less conspicuous to the others. But she knows he is in there, and she hears his voice and feels his eyes upon her as she paces.

"You need to remember," he's saying as she sucks in the ocean breeze and tries to get her bearings, "That you really aren't crazy, you know. You weren't then, either. It was them, it wasn't you."

"Right."

"And right now, it's actually kind of like it was in those days, now that I think of it. The seasickness is making you as queasy as the drugs did, and sleep deprivation always did do a number on you. Although of course, you're doing that to yourself this time."

It stuns her to ponder this implication. Is he right? Is she somehow doing this all over again, to get it out of her system once and for all? She's so sick she can barely see straight. And the boat is so confined---like a cell, now that she thinks of it---and James is as watchful as any Pescadero guard. guard. And another thing that's the same for her, her son has once again been taken away...

She shivers, rubs her hands on goosebumped arms. "So what are you saying? That I couldn't talk about this with him unless I subconsciously replicated the same conditions as I had when....when...?"

He shrugs. "All we need is for a Terminator to show up, and this will be just like I was ten years old and breaking you out of there. If you want to read something into that, go ahead. I'm just saying."

"You've been saying a lot of things."

"Maybe I have. Of course, it's possible I'm just a figment of your tired, confused imagination. But then, you always did have good instincts as far as these things go. What you tell yourself in times like these is generally pretty true."

"Yes. And?"

"And that means you need to trust you---or me---whatever---when I tell you to remember that you really are okay. Sharing this with him, it's something you need to do because this is your great secret. He knows more than you think he does, and that's his great secret too. You have some challenges coming your way, once you dock. You know that, right?"

"As you said. I always did have good instincts about these things."

"Well, he's going to need you. And you, horror of horrors, are going to need him too. You can't go into it with something like this between you."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"You'll go away again? Once I tell him, you'll go away?"

"Well, I never really go away. But you can sleep, if that's what you're asking."

She's shaking. She's not sure if it's because the shocks to her system of these last few days are finally catching up to her, or if the specter of losing her son again---even though she knows he isn't really here---is too much to handle right now. But she longs to hold John again, just one more time, to ask him if he's really okay out there, if he loves her, if he misses her, if he forgives her for it all...

"Oh, come on," he's gentle, sweet, like that ten-year-old boy who busted her out of hell. "You can answer that one."

And she's almost weeping, and there are strong hands holding her up, and a part of her knows it's James but a part of her is still hearing John...

"Easy now," James is saying. "Come on Sarah, stay with me. There we go. Water?"

She shakes her head, but gets a hold of herself. She's worked too hard to lick that cough to let something like this set her off again...

"If you won't come in with me, will you at least wear this?"

He's holding a jacket, and she puts it on. "I'll tell you," she says. "I'll tell you all of it. But first, I have a question."

"Yes. Anything."

"Did you know? When they sent me away to that place, did you know?"

He hesitates. But she can see it in his eyes that he is straight with her when he answers. "I knew in a general sense. There was a task force, after those women---with your name---were killed. I had some involvement. I kept up with your...your case...after that..."

"But when they sent me away, to there, specifically. Did you know?"

"Yes."

"People came, while I was there. Doctors. Students. People like...like you. I...I don't remember it all."

"I don't either," he admits. "I might have come. I might have not. I didn't get fully...involved...until your escape made you a federal fugitive. Those were serious charges you were breaking out of there on. And then, you had taken John..."

"He's my son."

"He was a minor who was at the time a ward of the state. It was kidnapping. That brings on the feds."

And he is back in that moment too, as much as she is. She hears it in the fed-speak, and her alarm must show on her face, because he softens. "Look, it was what it was. I'm just trying to get it out there, same as you are. Right?"

"Uh huh."

"You sure you want to do this?" he says. "You sure you want to go there again, in your head?"

"I'm there already," she tells him. "That's what this was all about, I guess. Losing John again, it...it set it off, all of it. That's my great trigger, James. Everything, good and bad, he's wrapped up in it."

"But how does this..."

Pescadero. Her great wound. Greater, almost, then the rest of it because she can tolerate the machines, tolerate the hiding and training and running. She can tolerate the adrenaline, and the pain, even. She can manage those physical things. But the less physical side...the one in her head...

There were two doctors, Silberman and another one. His name was McMichaelson, and she'd thought he was a guard at first. He had the build of a guard, beefy and broad, with a tattooed forearm and a loud, jocular voice. The guards, for their part, loved him. He hosted barbecues every year where they would bring their wives. He had a wife too. She would hear the timid, small voice beseeching from the answering machine when she was hauled into his office for sessions.

"Now, Sarah," he would say. His voice was booming, friendly. At least, it would start out that way...

"Sarah, Dr. Silberman tells me you've been having a difficult time."

This was true, by default. McMichaelson was the bad cop of the two. You were only brought in to see him if you were having a 'difficult' time.

He would adjust the straps. That was another default of being 'difficult.' They strapped you down and wheeled you in that way. He was supposed to unstrap you and let you sit on the couch, if he thought you could handle it. He never thought thought this.

"Sarah, He tells me you were talking again about the machines."

She tries not to answer. She tries to ignore the band of leather digging into her wrists, tries to fight the instinctive urge to struggle. But he senses the wiggle in her fingers. He shakes his head in exaggerated disappointment, opens a desk drawer and pulls out a syringe. Her behaviour has not yet warranted such a step. Even the first time it happens, she knows this much. But she is lying there, helpless, restrained, with not even enough mobility to look him in the eye and glare at him.

An orderly is supposed to do these sorts of things. She knows this too. If such a step is warranted, he is supposed to call in an orderly, and it's supposed to go on her chart. But the heavy wood door stays tightly locked and there are no orderlies, and he does not look at her chart, and she has no idea what is in the syringe he's waving around while he watches her...

"Now, we can't have any of that," he says. His voice is still smooth, almost apologetic as he plunges the needle into her arm, and it suddenly hits her how vulnerable she is, how exposed, her hands and feet splayed out so that she can't defend herself...

She struggles, and he lets her thrash for a moment, the restraints digging deeper into her bare, cold arms. They leave tracks of mottled skin on her arms for days, and the wounds will sting and itch, but she'll have bigger problems by then, of course, and she'll hardly notice. Her body is tensed, already anticipating the reaction. Then she arches as the drug at last assaults her system. She retches weakly, then goes limp.

His hands are on her, turning her head so that she doesn't choke on the spew. She can't focus. Her eyes water as she tries to, her head twitching, her lungs burning, her system still trying to adjust to whatever he's put into her bloodstream.

"Now," he says. "About the machines."

She's still fighting to catch her breath. She'll do whatever he says, if he'll let her have air again...

"We've seen you on the cameras." She feels his meaty hands enfold her upper arm, and squeeze. "This is training, isn't it, Sarah? Trying to get strong again, are you? In case they come?"

She nods, or shakes her head, she isn't sure which and she isn't sure she has the muscle control to decide, either way. But he's too engrossed in his little script to care about her responses. He's moved his hand further down her arm and is almost at her breast...

"There are no machines, Sarah. You know that, right? I mean, look at you. Ten minutes after they bring you in, and you're drooling all over yourself and twitching like an idiot. And yet you continue to insist that you are humanity's hope for the future? That a set of pull-ups every day or so is going to help you save the world?"

She wants to tell him that's he's wrong about her, that it's him he's seeing when she twitches, his incompetence, his ignorance, his syringe. But she's feeling it now, whatever it was, and she isn't sure she can open her mouth without vomiting. He squeezes again, his nail hitting the edge of her nipple, and her body almost revolts. But he's smoothing down her hair, dribbling a sip of water into her mouth. "Catch your breath for a moment. There you go. Now, look, Sarah, you aren't going to progress very far in your treatment at all if you don't face the reality. There are no machines, are there, Sarah?"

He runs a fist into her belly, unknowingly pressing at the spot of her caesarian scar. "Well, let's check you over. See just how strong you're really getting. This is for your own good, you understand. To see how far you've taken the delusion..."

She flinches away and and wonders if the terminators have gotten in somehow while she has been tied down and defenseless, and planted him here. His hands move fast, so fast it's like they are liquid metal floating down her body, and her muscles subconsciously tense under the attention. And it's wrong, everything is, it's too loud and too bright and her head is full of images, her son, and the factory, and the machines, and Kyle, poor, dead Kyle, holding her hand and whispering soothing things in her ear as his jacket comes off, as his belt buckle loosens, as those large, clumsy hands make their way ever downward and her mind revolts against the drugs and the trauma and the danger and bails on her completely.

--

There are hands holding her again, dark ones, soft ones. James. She's on the boat, and she's telling him. Her great secret.

"I'm sorry. Sarah, I am so, so sorry," he saying.

She shrugs. "Maybe. I still don't know...don't know how much of it was real, really."

"You know," he says. "In your heart of hearts, you know."

She can't go there right now. "What I know is, they did something to me. Those drugs, they weren't like...they did something. Maybe are doing something still. I'm not crazy, I'm not. But sometimes..."

"No. We deal with things, the best way we can. And after everything you've been through..."

"After everything I've been through, I wonder sometimes. If maybe they made me crazy, or maybe I always was, underneath it. And I hate them for putting that doubt in my head, but James, I don't remember all of it, and even now, I'm still not sure how much of it was...was REAL..."

"It's okay, Sarah."

"No. It's not okay. He still comes to me, you know."

"Who comes to you?"

"Kyle. Before Pescadero, I dreamed, but not like...like... Maybe it was the drugs, or the...the other stuff. Defense mechanisms, I don't know. And I was never great with narcotics, still am not great with them. But McMichaelson, those syringes, this was a whole other category, and I still... Remember when we talked about pain? You asked me what a ten is?"

"Yes."

"I had an incident, shortly before you arrested me. There was a group called Kaliba. I was shot. It was more than that, but that's the short version. I woke up in the hospital with a bullet in my thigh and no idea what the hell was happening. And Kyle..."

"You dreamed about him."

"It was more than a dream. He was there, and he walked me through it, held my hand, helped me get my head in the game. Stayed with me when things got dicey. And part of me knows he wasn't really...but I don't know. I just wonder sometimes. There were years before McMichaelson. Years of running, of fighting, of machines. But it was different, somehow. I didn't...didn't go into my head the same way whenever things got bad. I still don't, for the most part. It seems to take a special kind of pain to bring him out. But when I get to that place---when it IS that bad, and he does come out---it scares the crap out of me, James, because I still don't know what was real, and what---exactly---they did to me. And if whatever it was is the better or worse option to just being crazy. Damn. I'm tired."

"It's okay," he says. "Sleep now."

"Yeah, I think I should. Can we...can we leave the monkey out there though?"

She doesn't explain why. He doesn't ask her, and she wonders if he'll want to talk about that later. But then, she's pretty sure Savannah has figured out at least that much. She suspects that if she stays asleep for long enough, the girl will take care of both James---and John---for her.


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: Sorry for the long hiatus, everyone! Some personal stuff going on. I'm back though, and planning to finish this! I hope you'll keep reading, and please post some feedback if you are enjoying the story, it really helps me keep it going. The song in this chapter is 'Morning has Broken' by Cat Stevens.  
_

--

Part 7: Keeping the Faith

He expects a battle, getting Sarah to bed, but she submits to his ministrations without incident. He is so relieved to have her squared away---her skin is already softening as her body starts repairing itself, her face pinking up as her muscles relax in sleep---that he almost doesn't notice the problem with Savannah.

She's wandered outside while he was getting Sarah taken care of. When he finds her, she's got Mr. Fur propped up just like Sarah did, and is staring at him with the same intent, emotional fixation.

"He won't tell me anything," she complains when she sees him come out on the deck with her. She looks away from Mr. Fur to give him this news, and he sees the distress in her eyes.

"Won't tell you what, Savannah?"

"What he did with her. It was something, Uncle James. There was something, with...with..."

And she's crying, the tension of the last few days at last breaking down the strong front she's been putting up for them. He hugs her close, and she sniffles, trying to wipe away her tears.

"I thought I would see it," she says after a moment. "Aunt Sarah and I, we...and Mr. Fur, he's my special friend, and I thought...I thought I could look at him and pick it up somehow."

"Oh, Savannah..."

"And I'm scared again," she says, her voice breaking on the last word and her face scrunching up with tears. "I'm scared because I don't know what's happening."

"None of us do."

She looks out at the vast, wide expanse of ocean, takes in the vista of stars that cocoons their little vessel, and the majesty of the clear, open sky. "You can see everything out here," she says. "You can see what's coming, on every side. So it's easy to be brave..."

There's nothing to say to that. He holds her, until she goes soft and slack in his arms like Sarah did. Then, for the first time in days, he tucks them in, together again.

--

He dreams. There is a house, on a lake, and it's white with blue trim and a picket fence laced with trims of green shrubbery. There is a dock for the boat, and a thicket of trees that shields them on either side from neighbours. Sarah is there, but it's not his Sarah. He knows, without needing it explained to him, that it's only a copy. A simulation, like the one they took apart in the desert, just after they ran.

"She's right, you know," the dream-Sarah says. "You can't see all around you, here."

"She don't need to see all the way around her," he says. "She has me to cover her on the blind spots."

"Oh? A fine job you've done on that one. You don't even know what you've gotten yourself into, do you?"

He dismisses this. There are always prophecies, especially for a man like him, who believes. But the dream-Sarah shakes her head. "It's not that. It's not even that, this time. There are some things you can't train for. She doesn't know that yet."

He nods. He has seen this in her, this single-mindedness, this focus, this quest for ultimate---and ultimately futile---invincibility. Train hard enough, fight hard enough, kick hard enough, and she still, after everything she's seen, believes that she'll be ready. And she thinks he is weak because he isn't out there kicking with her. But what she doesn't get yet is this---it's not that he disagrees with her on the inevitability of facing one's destiny. He only disagrees that one has to be alone in whatever happens.

The dream-Sarah nods approvingly, as if she has been following his train of thought. "You get it. I think you do. You'll lean on your higher power, just as she'll lean on you. Because here is the problem, there are things you just can't train for, James Ellison. No matter how tough you are."

He jolts awake, and the memory of the dream lingers with him, sharp and tart and strong. And he hears John Connor's words again, that one precious message he's sent to guide them to the future. God is not as far away as you think. Dreams fade, don't they? But this Sarah who has come to him, she's lingering. He doesn't know if it was just a voice inside himself, or if there really was something more, but he can feel that this was part of John's message, and he knows what he has to do.

He hears Sarah stirring, and goes in to her.

"I want to talk to Savannah about faith," he says.

He senses her back go up, but he climbs onto the bed, undaunted. He gives her a gentle kiss and lays himself down beside her.

"You're not alone in this," he says. "None of us are. Remember?"

He's still not sure how awake, how aware she is right now. But he needs an answer. "We're in it, together," he says. "We're in it together, Sarah. She'll need what both of us can teach her."

She says nothing. But she sleepily returns his kiss before turning over and drifting off again.

–

He drifts off himself, and awakens again as light is creeping through the portholes at first tendril of sunrise. He shuffles into the main cabin and is startled to find that he is now the only early riser. Savannah, in mickey mouse pajamas and a white terrycloth robe that nearly hits her ankles, is camped out at their little table. Mr. Fur is propped up in front of her, against a sweating glass of orange juice, and Savannah is regarding him intently, a silent communion seeming to pass between them as she fixes him with thoughtful, sober eyes.

"Good morning, Uncle James."

She does not look away from Mr. Fur when she addresses him. He pours himself his own glass of orange juice and returns the greeting.

"Good morning, Savannah."

And he waits. He senses she has something to tell him, and he is not disappointed. After a moment's heavy pause, she pushes her little set-up---juice glass, Mr. Fur and all---away and draws up her knees, getting comfortable.

"So, I figured it out," she says to him.

"Oh?"

She opens her clutched little hand and there is a micro-cassette tape in it. "I remembered the tracker," Savannah says. "And I wondered if that was the only thing someone put in there..."

"Oh, Savannah..."

"No, it's okay. It didn't get much, you know. We never knew to change out the battery, and I think all the fur muffled the microphone a little..."

He is shattered for her, that her beloved childhood toy could betray her like this, but Savannah seems sanguine. And a part of him can hear Sarah's voice in his head, not his gentle dream Sarah but his tough-as-nails sexily protective real-life one warning him that this small loss of innocence is a necessary part of the process. But Savannah is still talking, and he puts the brakes on his own introspections to listen.

"It was John," Savannah is saying. "That's who she talked to, when she looked at Mr. Fur. It was John. And Uncle James, I think he...I think he talked back to her."

"Yes," he says. And in that moment, he makes the leap for both of them, for all of them, for himself and for Sarah going ahead with this. He makes his choice. This is not from 'crazy' or from whatever she thinks that horrific experiment at Pescadero was. It is not a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation either. He gives Sarah her moment, just as he had his when she came to him during his dream. This is the first lesson he will share with Savannah about faith.

"Yes," he says again. "Yes, Savannah. I think he did."

And he explains it---the man, Edward, who came back when they were still on land. The messages he brought, for Sarah, for James himself, from John. People matter. And God is not as far away as you think. He explains about Sarah, how she has built herself up, trained herself, made herself into that one strong power she can trust in, just as he trusts in his God and his world. And he explains his own journey, how he came to realize that faith alone is not enough sometimes. God alone is not, either. But faith and strength together...

"I understand, Uncle James."

"You do?"

"I worried you didn't. When I asked you if you dreamed, I worried you didn't. But you see it now, don't you? I dream too, Uncle James."

"Oh? And who comes to you, when you dream this way?"

She nods toward the monkey. "He does. But he's not...it's not him, most times. The colours are different, when it's one of those dreams. And then I know I have to pay attention."

"And what have you learned so far?"

"What you did. That only faith or only strength won't be enough. We have a lot of work to do. I'll need you both to help me."

"Yes."

She looks at Mr. Fur again. "I think we're done with him. Can we...can we bury him or something? Put him to rest somehow?"

"When we land. We'll hold a ceremony."

"No. Now. Tonight. We have to let go of him, Uncle James. For Aunt Sarah. For all of us. Then we have to land. Something important is going to happen. Do you feel it too?"

He does feel it. God is not as far away as he thinks.

–

He spends most of the day going through their supplies, looking for ingredients for a suitable cook-out. It's the only way he can think of to dispose of Mr. Fur appropriately. He finds hot dogs and marshmallows and a Webber grill they can use on deck to simulate a campfire. Savannah spends most of the afternoon constructing a coffin for Mr. Fur. It seems morbid to roast the stuffed monkey to death this way, but Savannah is insistent. He will be cremated, his ashes sent to sea. And they can move on to the next thing, free of him.

He wonders if he should be worried at how both Sarah and Savannah seem to have anthropomorphized what is, to his eyes, a mere toy. Both are suffering, to varying degrees, with what he is sure is fairly serious post-traumatic stress issues. He supposes, at least in Savannah's case, that a little play therapy is simply her way of working through this a little. And, brave belief in faith notwithstanding, he isn't completely sure Sarah is wrong about Pescadero and its lingering effects. But he has made his stand on this. They have all had their moment of faith, whatever vehicle it chose in which to manifest itself. Who is he to judge?

He finds himself affirmed a little when Sarah finally wakes after a very, very long sleep and is filled in by Savannah. She enthusiastically seizes upon Mr. Fur's cremation at sea and throws herself into the preparations. At sundown, they head on deck together. Sarah has modified the plan a little. They will use the grill's shell as a fire-proof pit and immolate him cleanly. It's more merciful that way, she tells him. Mr. Fur has been anointed with various potions from Sarah's bag of bath products---both to impart the requisite holiness into the occasion, and to mask the smell of singeing fur as he burns. They truss him up in his little coffin and drop a match inside.

"Does anyone want to say something?" Sarah asks.

Savannah starts sniffling. She is bundled up in Sarah's arms, and he has not been able to pry her away from Sarah all night. He under-estimated how badly Savannah would be affected by Sarah's little breakdown, and how relieved she is to have her back with them again...

"A prayer, then," Sarah suggests, looking to him for guidance.

He stands there for a moment, completely stumped, then Savannah, still snug in Sarah's arms, reaches out a hand to him and starts to sing.

_Morning has broken, like the first morning__  
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird__  
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning  
Praise for them springing fresh from the word..._

Their song. Back in the desert, when they first got together, the motley lot of them, this had been their first pure moment of love, of connection, of...of faith. And it is, he supposes, a fitting gesture of solemnity for this little tribute they are making to all they have endured.

The flames die out, and Sarah pokes inside the packet with her finger. Ashes. He leaves this moment to her---she's earned it, she and Savannah. The two of them, looking like one all bundled up together, tip the little packet open and scatter the ashes to the sea.


End file.
